


These Shadowed Halls

by deaconsleatherpants (FlameEmber)



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (2014)
Genre: Gen, Vampires, Werewolves, accents written out for comedic effect, canon-typical violence and blood, deacon is a rammstein fan, my friend has informed me this feels slightly shippy so viago/deacon if you squint, set after nick becomes a vampire but before the fatal sunlight accident, some shenanigans with some vampires, viago is sad, vladislav tries to be bob ross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22475392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlameEmber/pseuds/deaconsleatherpants
Summary: In which, during a series of attempts to cheer a mopey Viago up, the dishes are cleaned, Rammstein is played, a poster is poked, a laptop is destroyed, and the new television set causes some trouble.
Relationships: Viago & Everyone
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	These Shadowed Halls

**Author's Note:**

> I adore all of these silly vampire boys. And their antics.  
> Warnings for canon-typical violence and bloodshed. 
> 
> Slight hints (according to a friend) of Viago/Deacon.

Werewolves were troublesome creatures. At least, there was no evidence to the contrary as far as Viago, Vladislav and Deacon were concerned; not fully human and yet not fully undead, werewolves had always proven to be a source of continued vexation. 

The three vampires had bid goodnight to Nick and Stu at the door, and were now standing in the foyer, flicking specks of dried blood from their clothes and (in Viago’s case) hair. Encounters with the werewolves tended to leave Deacon adrenaline-filled and Vladislav somewhat annoyed, and tonight had turned out no differently. 

Viago, on the other hand, was somewhere torn between irate, offended and distressed, all at once. He had nothing against werewolves, really, aside from the vague feeling that perhaps they might not bathe themselves quite as often as might be preferred. (That and the pervading _werewolf smell_.) Still, Viago felt that the resident pack had gone a bit too far tonight. His feelings were singed, and that was that. 

_Count Fagula._ Really? Was that all they thought of him? His bisexuality was nothing to be poked fun of, thank you very much. Was it his mild manner? (He’d thought it quite an attractive trait, honestly. He was the _nice_ one!) Or perhaps his unique sense of fashion? 

Viago glanced down at his outfit, brushing flecks of imaginary dust off the front of his velveteen doublet. Lacy cuffs billowed slightly with the movement. 

He **_liked_** his clothing, frilly sleeves and all. And what was wrong with slapping someone across the face with a glove? That’s certainly what they used to do back in **his** day, when riled or otherwise provoked. He huffed testily, folding his arms across his chest and scowling down at the carpeting as if it had been made of the fur of those stupid werewolves. He’d not quite been feeling himself lately, that was true, but this was the tipping point. 

Viago did not notice the eyes of his two friends tracking him as he stalked off into his coffinroom, nor did he see them glance at each other with matching perplexed expressions. Finally Vladislav shrugged, simply ascribing this behavior to Viago’s occasional tendency to break out into dramatics. He headed upstairs without further comment (covering a wide yawn), but Deacon did not follow. 

Instead Deacon stared into the blackness of Viago’s doorway, lost in thought, long after the older vampire had already disappeared into the abyss. 

><><><><><><

Viago couldn’t sleep, which was unsurprising, considering it was only around two in the morning - approximately the vampire equivalent of the human “happy hour.” 

He rolled onto his side, fingers splaying over the soft red velvet lining the interior of his coffin. Viago usually slept in the stereotypical ‘vampire’ pose - legs straight and together, arms crossed over his chest like the dead man he was - but, he found, he wasn’t exactly in the mood for sleeping just yet. (Once he’d tried sleeping hanging upside down like Deacon, and fell, bonking himself on the head and leaving himself with a rather nasty headache for the rest of the night. Also, he appreciated having all the comforts of a fancy, modern coffin.) At the same time, he wasn’t exactly in the mood for being awake and around other vampires either. It was a strange, restless conundrum. 

Without warning, the coffin lid above him shifted; a thin sliver of moonlight took the opportunity to creep inside, making Viago squint and let out a soft hiss. Then the lid was opened even wider, bathing him in soft silver light; propping himself up on his forearms with a feathery sigh, he blinked the dark spots from his eyes and focused with some degree of annoyance on the source of his disturbance - Vladislav. 

The older vampire crouched down by the side of the coffin, opening the lid to its fullest extent and wearing a concerned expression, or at least, what was his best approximation of “concerned.” 

“Vhat are you doing in your coffin?” 

Viago sighed, air whistling out through his fangs. “Sleeping.” He clung to the remote chance that it would work, and make Vladislav leave him to do just that. 

“It’s only two in zhe morning!” No such luck, it would seem. “And you forgot to close zhe curtains.” So _that_ was where the moonlight was coming from. Letting out a hiss of minor inconvenience, Viago stumbled to his feet and yanked the fabric closed over the window. The silvery light instantly faded to a mere glow seeping out from under the edge of the heavy brown curtain. 

Vladislav, in turn, stood and folded his arms over his chest, expression morphing from “concerned” to “disapproving.” “So… are you going to give us an explanation, or…?” 

“Zhere iz nothing to explain,” Viago said, stepping back into the velvet-lined coffin and petulantly lying down again, folding his arms across his chest decisively. 

True to his title, Vladislav poked him. Several times. Viago rolled his eyes, then reached up to yank the coffin lid shut. If Vladislav wasn’t going to leave of his own volition, then Viago would simply have to ignore his presence. 

Sure enough, there was a muffled expletive, a halfhearted attempt to rattle the lid, and then the shuffle of heavy footsteps out of the room. Viago heaved a sigh of relief, and rolled over onto his front. 

><><><><><><

It couldn’t have been more than an hour later when Viago’s eyes snapped open at the _extremely loud_ clamor that had suddenly assaulted his ears. He pushed himself up from the ground in a hurry, banging his head hard on the coffin lid before at last remembering his surroundings. As he cautiously crept out of the room, it became quickly apparent that the uproar was music, of a sort - guitars twanging loudly with a hint of something electric. His sensitive ears twitched as he approached the heart of all the noise. 

Deacon. (Of course.) 

“Vhat iz zhis?” He had to almost shout to make himself heard, and he wasn’t quite sure if Deacon was simply ignoring him or could, in fact, still not hear him - despite the (apparently limited) miracles of vampire-hearing. The younger vampire was furiously whipping his head up and down, fringes of black hair flopping over his face, and spinning around the room in fevered circles like some deranged, devilish hummingbird. 

Locating the source of the racket (the open laptop), Viago noted that Deacon had apparently discovered the world of German metal, and was currently listening to a song with a video that featured what looked like… werewolves... ? To make matters worse, it was set to repeat. He frowned and cleared his throat. 

“VHAT IZ ZHIS, DEACON?” This time Deacon responded, floating down towards the computer (and a rather irate flatmate) with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “I found it on the wee-fee, on MyTube!” The guitar riff kicked in again, and he made a show of playing an exaggerated version of it in mid-air. Viago tapped a patent-leather shoe with increasing impatience, which Deacon ignored with incredible aplomb. 

“Isn’t it amazing! Even though it IS about **_werewolves_**.” Deacon wrinkled his nose slightly as he said the name, as if he could already smell wet dog smell here in the living room. Viago, for his part, remained unamused. 

“You have to turn it down, Deacon!” He at last reached for the volume button himself, but his flatmate quickly batted the hand away, and snatched up the laptop for safekeeping. Viago planted his fists on his hips, in full vampire-mom mode. 

“It’s zhe middle of zhe night - all zhe humans vill be sleeping. Zhere are ordinances about zhis kind of zhing! I don’t vant zhe neighbors to complain. Do you vant to deal with zhe poleece, Deacon?” 

The police had been called on them before, he was sorry to admit, but so far they’d managed to not kill a single officer. He’d like to keep up the pristine record, but it was apparently getting more and more difficult the more times they were called. Deacon, however, did not seem to see things from Viago’s point of view. He was currently frowning mulishly, crossing his arms across his chest and still refusing to turn down the music. At least he was finally standing motionless in one place (albeit on the ceiling). 

“NEIN! What’s wrong with it? It’s German! **I’m** German! **_You’re_** German! You should like it!” 

Viago too enjoyed German music, the music of his homeland, but his tastes lay decidedly more towards Beethoven than… whatever or whoever **_this_** was. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he turned abruptly on his heel and shouldered past his flatmate. Passing Vladislav in the hallway (who, surprisingly, actually appeared to be enjoying all the noise) he left the house, letting the front door slam rather loudly behind him. The mid-autumn air was crisp, and if he’d been human, he might have blown air into his cupped hands. As it were, he simply arranged his cravat around his neck, tucking his hands into his pockets and gazing up at the starry, cloudless night. 

He could still hear the music; if anything, it seemed Deacon had turned it up even more in his absence. 

At least Viago could stay out and about until the police came and went, or until his flatmate grew a brain, whichever came first. 

><><><><><><

The black pointer tip tapped impatiently at the newly-hung anatomy poster, Vladislav bouncing his foot with equal agitation. Viago, rather uncomfortably squished into his own antique couch, eyed the pointer with some trepidation; the last time the medieval vampire gave one of these “informative” lessons, it was on the finer points of torture, so one could never know what to expect. Deacon, on the other hand, observed the goings-on from his position perching on the stair railing like some toothy gargoyle, some distance above Vladislav’s head. There was a strange glint in his eyes, which Viago decided pointedly it would be best to ignore entirely. 

One corner of the poster began to peel off of the wallpaper at the vehemence with which Vladislav was wielding the stick, thwacking it into different parts of the highly-detailed diagram at random. Viago very strongly resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Zhe main artery.” The pointer tip finally bounced over to the thickest stripe of bright red lining the model’s neck, tracing over to the matching band on the other side. “Do not - I repeat: DO NOT bite it!” He made a strange X with his hands, a gesture which Deacon copied above (nearly unbalancing himself in the process). It wasn’t as if Viago was _trying_ to make a mess, he reflected with his mind not entirely focused on the strange pantomime in front of him. 

But, as always, Vladislav was continuing, heedless to Viago’s lack of engagement. “You vill end up vith arterial spray, vich basically means zhat you vill end up drenched in blood, vhich might have been fun in zhe middle ages but… isn’t so great now. Especially vhen you hang around vith four other vampires.” This was all said with the air (and slight guilty expression) of a vampire who _might_ have tried to lick his blood-drenched flatmate clean at one point several decades back. 

“Yeah, do you want us to lick you again Viago?” Deacon, on the other hand, had a significant lack of such tact, to the point where even Vladislav comedically slapped a palm to his forehead. 

“Zhe point is, you vant to bite zhem _here_.” The rubber tip now poked at the thinner strip of deep blue _beside_ the crimson one. “Zhis vill be enough for you to feed, but not enough to make you a public embarrassment to both yourself and zhis household.” 

Viago shifted uncomfortably in his seat, worrying at his lower lip with his fangs for a moment before deciding he’d better go ahead and say something while Vladislav’s lecture was otherwise paused. 

“I really can’t learn zhis from a diagram, you know.” He’d had almost four hundred years to try (and fail) to get this right; did Vladislav really think he hadn’t once cracked open an anatomy manual? 

To Viago’s mounting horror, while Vladislav at least was nodding (with a hand stroking his moustache) and seemed to be pondering his words, Deacon’s eyes glowed with the excited gleam they’d all come to associate with the unveiling of his _darker tendencies._

“Maybe we should dig up some bodies for him to practice on… it was a big thing when I was alive, very popular!” 

This time, Viago did not refrain from rolling his eyes, as he leapt from his seat with a disgusted exclamation at the thought of vampiric “resurrection men” and other such grave-robbers, and stormed out of the room. 

He wondered if, at this hour, he could find a human on the streets with a high enough blood alcohol content to make him forget the past three hundred years. 

><><><><><><

The clanking and crashing sounds emanating from the vicinity of the kitchen really should have tipped Viago off to what was going on, but nonetheless it was a surprise to see Deacon ushering him into the room with a conspiratorial look on his face. 

“I did zhe dishes! Without being asked!” 

His hands were held up away from his sides, still dripping foamy white suds onto the floor; Viago’s hopes instantly sank. “Look!” The pink rubber gloves adorning Deacon’s forearms were infinitely more interesting and distracting than whatever mess he was wanting him to see, but Viago turned to look anyway. Well, the kitchen appeared intact, the sink was relatively sparkly, and it was certainly true that the heaping mound of bloody dishes was gone from the counter, but… 

Viago’s gaze flickered towards the cabinet full of white, clean dishes. (He wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d found them in the trashcan instead.) Shockingly, the youngest flatmate had actually done a decent job of the cleanup, with the possible exception of the kitchen itself. The sink still had an unbecoming reddish ring staining the metal, and Viago rather suspected that the stain of O- blood on the cutting board (dating back to an unfortunate hippie victim in the 1960s) would never be shifted despite anyone’s best efforts, but he supposed the effort was better than nothing. 

“Ja, zhat’s… zhat’s great, Deacon.” It was rather straining to force a grin for so long, especially for a vampire who was also attempting to hide his fangs behind his lips. 

“Good… Good.” He appeared as though he wished to say more, but Viago flashed him a quick thumbs-up before darting back out of the kitchen. 

Beside the gramophone in the living room, he flopped bonelessly into a navy wingback armchair, which had to be getting almost as old as Deacon by now. Massaging his temple with the fingers of one hand, he drew his knees up towards his chest, and sighed the sort of sigh he might have sighed more often, had he human lungs. 

><><><><><><

A vampire could be allowed to think that, in his own home at an hour swiftly approaching dawn, he would be able to get some uninterrupted peace and quiet. A vampire could also be wrong. 

Viago, sitting on his (still) rather reddened antique couch, with a glass of well-aged blood-wine in hand and a copy of _Dracula_ in his lap, was failing miserably at his attempt to relax. The main cause for his failure could generally be described as Deacon, or more precisely: inadvertently listening to his flatmate’s loud and continued struggle with the newfound “Wi-Fi” Stu had installed a few days previously. Viago thought the internet a strange place (after a handful of interactions with Facebook and strange forums full of humans who styled themselves “vampires” but quite obviously weren’t), but he found that he still preferred the comforts of dusty old books and frilled clothing that reminded him of a decidedly simpler time. At least the computer wasn’t being used to blast Viago’s eardrums (and indeed, those of any vampire within a quarter-mile radius) with loud metal music anymore. 

“What do you mean, zhe password is _incorrect?!_ ” Deacon’s muffled protests from the adjacent room, in combination with a loud crunching of plastic and metal, suggested that the laptop had just been thrown at high speed towards a wall. Viago sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. (Looks like they’d have to be asking Stu for a replacement in the coming days.) But still, every cloud had its silver lining; it seemed like, at last, he was now going to be able to enjoy his book. 

Taking a sip of his drink and setting the cut-glass goblet down on a nearby coaster, he flipped the hardcover book open to the first page - but, before he could do more than read the first sentence, was interrupted by the entrance of Nick. His eyes snapped shut in mild exasperation. 

“Hey man, uh... Viago?” The vampire in question felt the muscles between his eyebrows tense infinitesimally; still, he drew a breath he really didn’t need, uncrossed his legs, and opened his eyes. The tome audibly slammed shut. 

“Yes, Nick, vhat do you need?” 

The younger vampire appeared to be nervous, if that was even in his vocabulary; he was twisting his fingers together and looking at Viago with a general expression of concern, even as the muted sounds of Deacon’s unfettered rage continued in the background. “I just wanted to say, uh - I heard what those werewolf guys said, and I guess I just wanna say that wasn’t cool. Really not cool. Like, totally the opposite of cool. So, uncool, I guess.” 

For a dandy vampire who was almost four centuries old, millennial speech could be a bit difficult to wrap one’s head around, but Viago surmised that Nick had only the best of intentions, and that surely had to count for something. He sighed, and forced a wide smile onto his face. 

“Thank you, Nick.” Deacon was now being suspiciously silent, and Viago wondered if he’d passed out from an impossible lack of oxygen after all that anger, or perhaps had a brain aneurysm. 

“Right, well, I’ve said my bit, so I’m just gonna…” Nick was motioning vaguely toward the doorway with his thumbs, so Viago turned his attention back towards him and simply nodded. 

Rather than turning and walking out of the room like a normal person ( _vampire_ ), Nick chose to take the rather more theatrical route of transforming into a bat and flapping away. Viago could hear the distant dull thunk of body against glass, which suggested Nick was having difficulty successfully navigating his way out of the window that had been cracked open in the foyer - right next to the front door, incidentally. 

He turned his attention to the closed book, resting in his lap. Running a finger over the embossed leather cover, he considered holing himself up in Petyr’s basement for some well-deserved time to himself. But no, the moment had passed; with a sigh Viago tossed the book onto the musty cushion beside him, downed the rest of his blood-wine in one gulp, and got to his feet. 

On his way down the hall he paused to peek in at Deacon, who was currently sitting cross-legged in front of the television set. He’d somehow managed to make his way to the shopping network, and was now seemingly seduced by various items of women’s jewelry, including a tacky and massive pendant that could be loosely interpreted as a bat, if one squinted. The shot shifted to a blood-red ruby set in the black metal of a ring, the edge of which looked rather fang-like. Before Viago’s eyes, Deacon scooted closer to the screen, and reached out a hand to almost lovingly caress the image of the crimson stone as if he could simply pluck it out of the pixels. He made a sound that could only be described as a giggle, and - was he _drooling?_

Fully aware that he would become physically ill if he was forced to witness any more of this bizarre display, Viago shuddered and turned away. 

“I am now going to transform into a creature of ze night, so please, leave me alone.” His announcement was to the house at large, but was met with stillness and silence. 

The sight of the hedgehog crossing the street outside the flat would have been unimpressive to anyone, had they bothered to gather at a window to watch Viago leave. 

><><><><><><

No matter how fond one was of their flatmates, it was always nice when they were gone, to get a little time to one’s self. In Viago’s case, a lack of Vladislav and Deacon - on their way to meet up with Nick at a club in Wellington Central - made for the perfect peaceful night in. Normally he might use this opportunity to practice one of the many skills and hobbies he’d picked up (only to eventually abandon, but that was another matter entirely) over the centuries, but one failed mess of a pottery attempt later had dampened his spirits somewhat. And then one of his collectable miniature fireplace shovels had fallen on his toe. So, he was now sitting by the window, on his favorite couch, humming softly to himself with his still-unread copy of _Dracula_ by his side (and a sore toe). 

Thoughts of trying the new television crossed his mind, but perhaps that wasn’t the best idea; he’d done that once before, and only succeeded in accidentally subscribing their household to HBO. Vladislav’s telephone hypnosis trick had effectively meant that they hadn’t had to actually **pay** for the service, but that wasn’t the point, was it? Shaking his head slightly, Viago eyed his book, but opted not to pick it up. He rocked back and forth slowly in his seat, wondering what Katherine was doing at that exact moment. 

Of course, the relative peace and quiet had made Viago forget that Deacon and Vladislav were not, in fact, the only two other vampires he shared this dwelling with. The forgotten Petyr chose this moment to make an appearance upstairs for the first time in at least a couple decades, appearing in the shadowed doorway and lurking there long enough for Viago to catch sight of him (and leap, shrieking, a literal foot into the air). If Viago had still been in possession of a living heart, it surely would have stopped. He laughed nervously after a few moments clutching his chest in a reflex retained from his human days. 

“O-Oh, hello Petyr.” As if he **hadn’t** just narrowly avoided being scared into a second grave. Viago shifted back towards the window just in time to watch the tiny figures that were bat-Vladislav and bat-Deacon flitter back towards the house, weaving through the illuminated paths of several nearby streetlights. A single howl sounded in the distance, despite the lack of a full moon hanging heavy in the sky. The night was so calm outside the window, and his eldest flatmate so silent behind him, that he could almost forget (again) the simple fact that he _wasn’t_ alone with his thoughts. 

… Right up until the moment Petyr dropped a dead, bloody chicken into Viago’s lap. A couple of speckled feathers drifted to the floor below in the shocked silence. Viago juggled the bird with his thighs, attempting rather fruitlessly to keep the blood off his (after many nights of scrubbing, now just vaguely pinkish) antique couch or, worst of all, off his nice khaki pants. 

“Oh, yis, zhat’s... zhat’s nice Petyr, but I don’t zhink -“ He was cut off by a sharp hiss, the press of sharp claws into his shoulder, and the dark, bat-like silhouette of his elder flatmate fleeing the room, cape flung outwards. 

He appreciated the gesture, but... 

“Yuck,” Viago said, holding the bird’s scaly foot between thumb and forefinger while pulling a face. It would be rude to let a gift (and a perfectly good source of blood, at that) go to waste, but somehow it didn’t exactly cater to Viago’s decidedly more **refined** tastes. 

Handily, he happened to know of another vampire in the very same flat who wasn’t quite so… _choosy_. 

Still suspending the dead chicken at arm’s length, Viago got to his feet (using his free hand to hurriedly brush off his lap, hissing in consternation at the daubs of blood already beginning to set in to the fabric). There was no sign of Petyr in the foyer, or on the stairs, or indeed anywhere else on Viago’s intended route. 

Brandishing the chicken, he pulled open the door and stuck his nose inside before changing his mind, instead placing it neatly at the foot of - Deacon’s closet. 

Heading back down the stairs, he was surprised to hear the sounds of chatter coming from the kitchen; evidently his flatmates had returned at some point during the Chicken Fiasco, but what was more surprising was that he had not heard them enter. Not that Viago’s hearing was particularly exceptional for a vampire, but Deacon and Vladislav were difficult to miss. In his defense, being surprised with a freshly deceased bird in the lap _did_ tend to be a distraction. 

“Did you have a good time vith Nick?” He hoped at least one of them had had a good night, because while his hadn’t been the worst on record, it wasn’t exactly great either. He had been a fool to expect a proper answer (and only received a brief nod from Vladislav). 

“Ha, Viago, vhen did you start pissing yourself?” With a loud snort and a complete ignoral of the question, Deacon gestured toward the splotches of chicken blood speckling the front of the dandy’s pants. His legs were also crossed at the ankle and propped up on the kitchen table, a habit which Viago abhorred. 

While Deacon seemed to be extremely pleased with his own joke, and even Vladislav looked to be stifling a chuckle or two behind that bushy moustache, Viago simply rolled his eyes and strode from the room, on the hunt not for human blood but for a fresh pair of pants. 

><><><><><><

The muffled shout of his name, coming from somewhere deep beneath the floorboards, startled Viago from his midnight nap, an open tabloid magazine (6 proven remedies for fang strain!) sliding from his chest and onto the floor in a flutter of pages. 

He thought for a moment that he might have imagined the voice, until it sounded again, in the form of a deep bellow that had him scrambling to his feet in a panic. Was it another vampire hunter, come to murder them all? Just how many _had_ Nick given his Skype handle to? 

Viago darted down the stairs to Vladislav’s torture chamber, nearly slipping on the mossy surface of the damp stone steps, banging open the door and coming face to face with -

A dead man, hanging upside down from a pair of chains attached to the ceiling, and dripping blood. 

Viago yelped, shying away from the body in hopes of sparing _this_ particular pair of pants. The deep clearing of a throat drew his attention away from the unfortunate human and towards Vladislav, who was seated on a stool in front of… a painting easel? The paint palette in his hand could be clearly seen to contain multiple variations on the same color: blood red. (Viago suspected, upon spotting the little white bucket strategically positioned underneath the dead man, that **_blood_** red was not simply a creative term for a certain shade of red paint.) 

The canvas propped up on the easel, if squinted at, appeared to show a landscape, complete with resplendent pink-topped mountains and a deep, rusty lake that appeared to be clotting. Vladislav was currently sketching in the outlines of what looked like gangly pine trees, although since they too were red, it was becoming difficult to tell. Viago glanced around the room with some confusion. 

“Vhat happened here?” 

Vladislav broke from his painting just long enough to shrug. “Just a happy leetle accident. Come in.” He leaned back, appraising his own handiwork and nodding in approval, evidently pleased with what he saw. Viago timidly edged his way around the body to stand on a clean section of stone floor. He fought the rising urge to backtrack straight out of the room and pretend he’d seen nothing, but some of the dead man’s spilled blood was beginning to seep into the rug underneath (when had that been placed there?) and he knew if it wasn’t cleaned up promptly it was going to leave a nasty stain. 

“I have been thinking.” A dangerous pastime for Vladislav, Viago thought, but said nothing. 

“You have not been yourself lately, Viago. I zhink it has somezhing to do vith zhe fact zhat I ate a person on your nice couch last month.” That wasn’t exactly it, Viago wanted to sputter, but was cut off before he could even try. “Perhaps I should bid on a red linoleum sofa. You can bid on anything on ze internet. Zhey vill have it.” 

Viago knew Vladislav well enough to simply nod, and thank him quietly. Vladislav did not reply, but continued painting with an unexpected amount of jollity, humming an indiscernible tune under his breath. 

“And here ve have some happy leetle trees, vith some happy leetle men impaled on them…” 

Viago now took the opportunity to back away slowly, as one might do to escape being noticed by a lion who was otherwise distracted. At least this time he wasn’t being forced to pose for hours, only to discover that Vladislav’s finished “painting” was of something entirely different. 

“It iz a representation of my innermost self,” the medieval vampire proclaimed, proudly gesturing to the congealing mess of red, red, and more red dripping down the canvas once Viago had almost reached the door. He could only nod in stunned shock, trying to dissipate visions of himself, on his knees with a soaked sponge and a brush, scrubbing the dark red stains out of the rug for who knew just how long. 

><><><><><><

If Viago was going to berate his flatmates for not doing their chores, he had better do his own, he supposed, even if he didn’t particularly feel like it at the moment. He had just finished lugging the swollen rubbish bin out to the curb (somehow, four vampires were capable of creating a staggering amount of trash) and then, spotting a thick slug of dust hiding in the crack between the skirting-board and the floor, reached reluctantly for a broom hanging on a nail. To his surprise, a perfunctory glance around the floor revealed even more dirt and grime, nestled into tiny grooves and corners. Viago’s brow furrowed as he frowned; Vladislav was _supposed_ to have done this last week! With a huffed sigh and a roll of his eyes he set about completing the task, bending over to snag a discarded sock someone had left on the floor. 

He completely ignored the sound of a throat clearing behind him, not particularly in the mood to be annoyed by any one of them. 

“Here.” The muttered word made him turn, broom in hand, to see Deacon standing in the doorway, wearing a rather sheepish expression; Viago couldn’t help but be reminded of a dog that had been caught peeing on the carpet. He leaned the broom against the counter, dusting his hands off on a nearby (stained, bloody) towel and promptly bracing them on his hips. 

“I made you a sveater.” 

The article of clothing in question was a soft, skillfully-made (then again, Deacon’s projects always were) lump of colored fabric ungracefully tossed in Viago’s direction. The older vampire unfolded it to see an awkward rendition of his own face peering with threaded golden eyes back at him. The knitted Viago had his fangs bared at his alter ego in a hiss, blood staining his cravat. Little purple bats dotted the maroon background. 

He knew, instantly, that he would look an utter fool if he ever wore this sweater. Premonitions of Vladislav’s loud guffaws of laughter were already echoing in his sensitive ears. He stared at it for a few more seconds, not wanting to be cruel but quite literally dumbfounded. Deacon too seemed discomfited by the silence, and chose to wait no longer. 

“Well? Do you like it?” Still nearly speechless, Viago forced himself to look grateful and even managed a small smile. 

“Ja, I love it.” He didn’t sound even one percent convincing, even to himself. To his surprise, a genuine grin lit up Deacon’s face, and for a moment Viago felt bad that the only thing little knitted Viago’s fabric eyes would likely ever see was the back wall of a closet. 

“Good.” Deacon fidgeted for a moment, seemingly unsure what to do with his hands now that they were no longer crushing up a jumper. He finally settled for wringing them at his sides, nodding more times than was strictly necessary under the circumstances. 

“Well. That is good, because I don’t make sveaters for just anyvone.” With that, he was gone, almost faster than Viago could blink, leaving the older vampire standing alone in the dusty kitchen still holding up the offending sweater at arm’s length. The broom dislodged itself enough to fall to the ground with a loud, wooden clack. 

Viago slung the sweater over the back of the closest chair and picked up the broom, smiling slightly at what was, honestly, a kind gesture, an uncommon occurrence from Deacon. 

><><><><><><

Everyone else had already gathered in the entrance hall (with the notable exception of Petyr) in anticipation of a night out hunting, most likely to Boogie Wonderland, which thanks to Nick they were finally able to get into. 

Viago was decidedly not in the mood for this. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the wooden countertop and frowning down at the backs of his hands. Mingled with the sounds of excited chatter in the hallway was the scrape of metal against metal in the adjacent room, which reminded him that Stu was over, setting up the replacement for the ruined laptop. Viago ignored all of them. 

It was as if he were stuck in a sort of apathetic haze; it wasn’t even about the werewolves anymore, although doubtlessly they had been a part of it. He wasn’t even sure what it _was_ about, but one thing was certain: whoever said vampire hearts were cold and emotionless knew absolutely _nothing_. It wasn’t until the first drop of blood plopped down onto the back of his hand, swiftly followed by two, then three more, that Viago realized that he was crying. 

Unfortunately at that very moment Stu, having completed his work on Deacon’s newest computer victim, entered the kitchen, toolbox in hand. 

“Would have thought you’d be with the others.” 

Viago spun around, then froze; even to a human who was accustomed to being in the presence of vampires, the twin trails of watery blood running down his face might have a decidedly frightening affect. Indeed, Stu took an automatic step back, staring at Viago for a moment as if gauging what he should say, if anything. 

“Woah.” Stu had always been a man of few words. Instead he set down the toolbox on the kitchen table, and approached the vampire with a complete lack of caution. Viago instinctively pressed back against the counter, blinking owlishly at his friend. 

Stu hugged him. He didn’t even seem to care if Viago’s strange blood-tears stained his nice sky-blue polo shirt. It was a tight hug that filled Viago with a spreading warmth, until at last he returned the hug, vision swimming with red tint as he fought the urge to cry even harder. 

Perhaps all he’d needed all along was a simple hug, the physical contact he hadn’t even realized he’d been missing ever since the day he died. With a last sniffle he tore himself from Stu (who followed close behind) and ran down the hallway, clinging to the first vampire he found. 

This happened to be Deacon, who yelped unceremoniously and nearly fell over in the process of trying to fix his hairstyle, with Viago’s arms still attached around his waist. Viago stifled a snicker.

He latched himself onto Vladislav next, who simply froze up, posture stiff, and appeared to be as responsive as a plank of wood but eventually reciprocated with an awkward pat on the back. Once Viago released him the medieval vampire adjusted his hat clumsily, clearing his throat. Deacon, still in the process of fixing his thickly lacquered hair, chuckled.

The door then opened to reveal Nick, who had arrived fashionably late as always; Viago hugged him too, flashing a luminous smile as he glanced around at all of his friends. His friends, all of whom he only just now realized had attempted, in their own unique ways, to break him from his foul mood. 

The dishes. The sweater, awful as it was. Vladislav’s attempt to finally teach him how to avoid the main artery while feeding. The offer to buy him a new sofa. Even Petyr’s rather cat-like “gift.” They’d all tried so hard, and he’d failed to realize it. Viago sniffled, wiping crimson marks from his cheeks, and beamed his usual chipper grin.

They were his stupid friends and flatmates, completely idiotic (except for Petyr, who was more in the realm of terrifying), but for better or for worse, he loved them all. And, he was pretty sure, they loved him, too.

**Author's Note:**

> The hedgehog line comes from one of the DVD extras, where Viago discusses the different creatures of the night vampires can transform into.
> 
> Brownie points to anyone who can name the song Deacon was obsessing over.
> 
> Comments are always very much appreciated, and thank you for reading!


End file.
